Untitled By Default
by Starling Short
Summary: I was a pawn, and this was something I had accepted. No, I wasn't whipped, and I wasn't madly in love with my best friend. I just couldn't say no. Matt/Mello, Mello/Matt, yaoi, lemon.
1. Level 1

"Matt!"

I heard Mello's shouts, but for some reason, I did not respond. He was downstairs, and I was upstairs. From the volume of the shout, I could estimate that it would take him about forty five seconds to go from downstairs up to where I was, and by that time, this boss would be dead.

The floorboards practically shook as Mello stormed up the stairs.

Twenty-two seconds.

"Matt, you lazy, good for nothing nerd! Get down here!"

Fifteen, and the deathblow had been cast. Time to get up and make it look like I was on my way.

I turned the PSP off and left it on the coffee table before practically running to the door. I knew if Mello had to open the door, then I would have been in trouble. Quickly, I grabbed the doorknob and swung open the door.

Three seconds.

"Matt, what the fuck are you up to in here?"

I shrugged. Mello snarled at my non-informative response, but that was all. His pale blond hair practically rose in fury, almost like a cat's might when angry, and his slender brows furrowed.

"When I call for you, that means haul ass downstairs, Matt."

I yawned, and gave a slight nod. "Yes, boss. I was just putting my pants on. Didn't think you'd want me tearing through the apartment without boxers."

Bingo.

Mello's scowl became more intense as he tried to stop the flush in his cheeks. Some devout Catholic he was. I had known for the longest time that Mello was, for the most part, celibate. He thought sex was distracting from his work. Me on the other hand, well, let's just say my address book in my phone was primarily made up of names like "Cherry" and "Angel", or, my personal favorite whenever I'm up for more than one round, "Veronica".

However, this doesn't mean that Mello never went out. Sometimes, the best way to get information was from those who "partook in less than holy" actions, and in that instance was when Mello and I would work as a team. He would wear his motorcycle garb. The slick black leather that hugged every curve and turn of his figure, the pants with the lace up crotch with the waistband clinging snugly around his prominent hips. Let's just say that even I had to make an effort to remember that Mello was a guy, he was so good looking.

Some nights we would head to clubs and bars, him on his bike and me in my Camaro. We could have ridden together, and we have maybe once or twice, but this way, we appeared less like a team and more like friends meeting up after a party or some shit. Either way, a team is what we were.

With Mello's feminine looks, he could woo the strong bodyguard, muscle men type over to our small table with an untouched pitcher of beer. As docile as his features were, it was in Mello's face that one could see his strength. That strong, unmasked frown Mello possessed, his cold glare, and overtly confident stance. He was only five foot six, which is pretty damn tiny compared to most men, but somehow he convinced them all to bend over backwards for him, and I watched completely in awe.

Me, it was my job to pick up the "less intelligent" of our informants. In other words, my standoffishness and freckles helped us entertain and attract the whores of these muscle men who were often pimps or guys who made money through less than honorable ways.

Not like I have room to talk.

"Not a penny more than ten grand," Mello said firmly later that night. His right knee was crossed over his left, and the toe of his boot occasionally tapped my shin every time I took a hearty sip of the foaming mug of Sam Adams that was before me. Maybe it was the fact that I was drinking period, or perhaps it was the sloppy grin I wore that let him know I was half drunk when the girl on my left began unbuttoning my jeans with her pink-tipped manicured nails. Mello wasn't particularly fond of sexual encounters, much less public ones.

Mello continued conducting business, bargaining over something. Guns I think. Our old ones had worn out, and I think Mello was negotiating for Berettas, fake licenses, as well as ammo and probably a few other guns. Like I said, some girl was undoing my pants at the moment. Actually right as those teasing fingers slid beneath the band of my boxers, Mello gave me a sharp kick that spooked her, but sent me laughing hilariously.

"Holy fuck, Mel!" I slurred, cracking up in a way I only do when I'm intoxicated. "At _least_ let me keep myself amused."

Mello stood up quickly from his chair and grabbed me by the hair, dragging me away from the two ladies and into the hallway of the bathrooms, my pants slipping partially off of my hips. Forcefully, he slammed me against the wall and wrenched my goggles off of my face, still holding a handful of my hair.

"Look, you little shit, I know you're drunk off your ass, but now is not the time for your stupid immoral hobbies."

I chuckled, paying no attention to the fact that our bodies were pressed tightly together, Mello's words literally tickling my ear, for we were so close.

"I mean it, _Matt_!" Mello hissed, forcing his knee between my legs, pressed right against my groin. I couldn't tell if his next move was going to bring excruciating pain, or provide naught but drunken pleasure.

"If this deal gets messed up, I swear, you are going to regret it."

Mello forced his hands into the front pocket of my jeans, pressing his knee even closer as he pulled out my pack of cigarettes and stuffed one in my mouth, holding a lighter to the end.

"Inhale," he said.

I did so and the sweet waves of tar, smoke, and nicotine flooding my lungs and blood. Not like it helped very much, but it did enough to calm me down and I nodded.

"Good. Just keep smoking, and don't say a word."

The two of us headed back to the table, where the two ladies had vanished.

"It seemed like your buddy here was getting distracted," chuckled Mr. Beefy, a half smoked cigar hanging between his lips. "I sent the girls to the dance floor."

"I'll go too!"

I motioned to get up, but Mello grabbed me by the ear, ignoring my yelps until I sat down.

"Good," Mello replied. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to wrap this up quickly. I have ten grand with me right now, cash. You have the guns with you. I suggest an exchange tonight. No contracts, no papers, no record."

The man's greedy eyes lit up as the two of them shook on the deal, Mello's tiny, gloved hand enveloped in his thick, calloused one.

We made the trade almost immediately. By this point, the alcohol had started to wear off a little bit, although I think it was mostly due to my frequent bathroom trips and my cigarettes. By two-thirty am, we were loading the merchandise into the trunk of my sports car, and Mello was sitting in the drivers seat.

"Aww, fuck, I wanted to-"

"No, Matt. You're not driving."

I honestly don't remember much of the ride back to the apartment. I fished a joint out of the glove box when I ran out of cigarettes and lit that up too. Mello barked at me to roll down a window. Pot smells like shit, but you can't tell when you're high.

"Trade went well?" I asked when we had locked up the apartment for the night and I crashed on the sofa.

Mello nodded, pouring himself a small glass of hot sake and taking a shot. I smirked.

"Thought you didn't drink."

Mello shrugged. "I'll go to confession this week. With your behavior, avoiding alcohol and other substances completely would be impossible."

I frowned and grabbed a hold of Mello's belt loop and pulled him onto the sofa with me.

"Look, buddy, there's nothing wrong with a little liquor here, a little sex there. You need to relax. Trust me, recreation _improves_ concentration."

Mello shook his head and reached for the sake bottle, pouring himself another glass, then another, and a fourth. I took the bottle and poured myself one as well, completely un-doing all the sobering up from earlier.

"You know, Matt," Mello sighed, his cheeks rosy pink as he sprawled across the sofa, leaning his head on my shoulder. "I've never actually gotten _drunk_ drunk. Like fucking . . .piss drunk."

"Oh? Really?"

Mello nodded and took another sip of the sake, which was starting to cool. Cold sake burns like rubbing alcohol and gasoline. He sputtered and coughed, grasping at his throat, and knocking over the side table, lamp, as well as the sake.

"Fucking-a," he coughed.

I wrapped an arm around Mello's shoulder, wiping the sake from his chin with my sleeve.

"You alright?"

He shook his head and pressed his palms against his knees. Probably trying to shake the uncomfortable sensation from his mind.

"It burns."

"Let me cool it off, then," I smirked. God that was so fucking cheesy, but I did it anyway. Mello turned towards me, confused almost, and I directed his lips towards mine. Normally, I'd pass it off and say I had no idea what I was doing.

No. I knew exactly what I was doing. Kind of.

Mello grumbled slightly, almost in protest before shifting his position so we could kiss more comfortably. All at once, it seemed slow motion, yet so fast. Mello's hands, still gloved, clutched at my shirt, uneasily at first, but then tighter, and more so out of desperation. The kiss was sloppy, but I could deal with that. Hell, we were both pretty intoxicated, what did it matter?

Guilt gnawed at the back of my mind as I felt a cool leather glove push underneath my shirt and press against my stomach. Mello must _really_ be drunk to be doing this. Why was _I _even doing this? Admittedly, I am a sexual deviant whenever I become involved with anyone, but I never even considered myself bisexual. Yet, here I am, being undressed by the most attractive person I have ever met in my life, and with someone who before now had been completely out of my reach and could have never been bought with money or charm.

Mello's lips had now moved from mine to my neck, and rested at my collarbone. For someone who was celibate, he certainly knew what he was doing here, nipping sharply over the area.

"Hey, Mel," I grumbled, more so to muffle any sounds of satisfaction. "We really should quit this."

Mello grumbled and put one hand over my mouth.

"Shut up, Matt."

I bit my tongue and obliged as Mello shoved my shirt farther up and over my head. My muscles quivered as a warm tongue caressed one nipple, then the next. I placed my hands behind my head to support my neck, chewing on my lip to withhold my slight groans. Shaking with what might have been anticipation, Mello bit the tip of his leather-clad forefinger, tugging off his glove. I didn't quite see where it fell before the icy tips of Mello's pale fingers stroked along my tight abdomen, resting atop the metal button of my Levi's.

At that point there was nothing I could do save to watch Mello, his nose barely centimeters from my skin. Every whispered breath summoned patches of gooseflesh along my stomach. Mello's lips motioned soundlessly against my hip, sending my blood into a boiling fury that send my vision swimming before my eyes.

"What was that?" I mumbled.

Mello paused for a moment, as still as pale marble, before glancing up at me. Being childhood friends, I had seen virtually every expression, every contortion of one's face possible from Mello, ranging from anger to sheer joy. Never before in all my memories had I seen such a look as he gave me then. Imagine the intense gaze a lion throws the gazelle as he stalks, his figure low to the ground, ready to spring. The arch of Mello's back was prominent, yet smooth, and he moved further up on me. His clothed chest pressed against mine with the beads and cross of his rosary imprinting upon my skin as his lips brushed my earlobe as he whispered.

"Denying you has been so difficult, Matt," Mello murmured. He voice shook as if he were admitting a long-hidden secret, as if he were trying so desperately to hide his thoughts from the God whom he loved so much.

I chuckled, my concentration still slow from the liquor, but slowing regaining its usual strength.

"It must have been terrible for you, Mel." I smirked.

He kissed his way back along my jaw, my chin, to my lips. Thin and pale, but warm, they lightly caressed my own, almost cautious, mumbling a soft "yes" before silencing me. I longed to wrap my arms behind his back, crush our slender figures together in passion, but I refrained. Instead I pulled my hands from my sleeves, shaking my shirt off at last, and let my hands run over Mello's shoulders and down his sides.

Cold. All I could feel was the uncomfortable rub of that chill leather, the slick, yet entrapping animal skin. Cold. It was an excellent description for Mello, yet this was not the Mello I felt in my arms now.

Without bothering to be discrete, I looped my finger into the ring of Mello's vest and tugged gently, unzipping the zipper and pushing the unwanted garment off of his shoulders. I pressed my hands against Mello's chest. Thin, muscled, paler than all save the winter snow, but I could feel his heart racing, his blood pounding beneath my fingers and against my palms.

Still cold. Still chill, but finally human and alive.

At this point, Mello was now straddling my leg, one knee in between mine, pressed against my groin painfully, and the other barely brushing the outer side of my thigh. I brushed my fingers in succession over his nipples and he moved forward only an inch, but it was enough of one. Out of both discomfort and pleasure I moaned into his mouth, and he did the same. My fingers dug lustily into his shoulders, the heat from between us radiating, forcing my skin to become flecked with a small beads of sweat as my jeans only became more and more restricting.

Mello pressed his hands into the coarse fabric of the sofa, pulling away from our kiss in haste. For a moment I was afraid he had become sober, and I feared that there would be no resolution for me that night.

But of course I was wrong.

Sitting on his knees, Mello's quick fingers darted to the laces in the front of his pants. I was never quite sure how he tied them without the result being a big, droopy and unflattering bow hanging in front of his crotch, but somehow he managed. I watched as he tucked his thumbs into the leather waistband, and then paused, obviously contemplating something. Perhaps he –

"Matt. What are your jeans doing, still being on?"

My heart jolted in my chest. No question or order was needed. Clumsily my fingers scrambled at my belt buckle, the metal clasp clattering as my hands shook. Seeing me as being too slow, Mello took over. He laid his hands atop of mine gently and undid the buckle, popping open the button and pressing down on the zipper with his thumb. All of this was done with complete expertise, as if he had rehearsed before, physically or otherwise.

Our positions changed to this and that as elbows bumped here or foreheads knocked there. In the end, we landed back where we had started, the two of us on our knees, staring each other down, waiting for the other to give, and move.

And then, despite the throbbing ache in my pants, I cracked.

At that moment there was nothing I wouldn't have given, no human life I wouldn't have sacrificed to pull Mello against me, force my shaking hands between that tight leather and cold skin, and envelope my fingers around his warm erection. No price would have been too much to pay to witness Mello at his weakest, and most vulnerable moment much less to be the immediate cause of such downfall. My blood boiled with anger and irritation at the thought of how many others, men and women, have looked at Mello and thought the same exact things as me and had attained nothing. Here I was, the perfect opportunity to be satisfied in more ways than one thrust right up under my freckled nose on an open platter.

Yet I couldn't do it.

............................................

A/N: Hey, guys! My second shot at a fanfic. It's coming along slowly, but that's only because of college. Don't worry, it will be finished! Please feel free to leave reviews, and criticism. :D


	2. Level 2

Author's Note: Hey everyone! I am so, so, so, so ultimately sorry that it has taken me SO long to get this chapter uploaded. Life right now is insane. I'm working two jobs, attending two different schools, dealing with my personal relationship AND my truck decided to start breaking so I might need another car. But I looked back over the reviews and I saw that so many people really enjoyed chapter 1 of my fanfiction, so since chapter 2 was about ready I edited it and voila! Here you go. I really want to thank everyone for their encouraging reviews! You guys keep me going. Enjoy!

-Maii

.............

The next thing I remembered was a distinct and putrid smell of vomit. I groaned, the streams of sunshine peering through the sheer curtains as I groped around for my goggles. God, I hated the sunlight. Either way it beats the smell of vomit, which I still couldn't figure out where it was coming from, since it obviously wasn't from the couch I slept on. Otherwise that would have been even more unpleasant.

Pressing my palms against my face, I sat up, noting a distinct breeze that hadn't been there the night before. I rubbed my hands against my eyes, shielding my vision from the ever so annoying sun as I glanced down at my boxer shorts.

Wait.

Didn't I fall asleep with my pants on?

"Ugh, no more drinking," I groaned, although I knew very well I would be drunk again in a few days. The ominous clicking of a gun followed my mumbles.

Before me stood Mello with a small, but threatening handgun pointed not more than a few inches from the bridge of my nose.

He wore no shirt like the night before, and the drawstrings of his leather pants were loosened. My jaw dropped and I pinched the paleness of my thigh, just to make sure I wasn't going crazy. And it wasn't a good pinch, either.

"You didn't sleep well?" I asked with feigned innocence.

Mello snarled and jabbed me in the temple with the barrel of the gun.

"Ow, shit, Mel—"

"Shut up," he hissed.

My lips parted, and then closed. Mello was infamous for his spontaneous gun wielding believe it or not, and although I highly doubt he would have wanted to shoot me, that doesn't mean he wouldn't have.

"You, Matt," he spat my name as if it had the flavor of something not very nice. "You got me drunk."

I blinked, and then couldn't help but crack a grin.

"You were drinking on your own you k—"

The whole length of the gun collided with the side of my face, and I swear I felt something crack. My nerve endings were on fire and hot tears swam unwillingly before my eyes.

"Fuck," I spat, blood dripping from the cut in my lip where I'd bitten myself. "Okay, Mello, just drop the gun."

Mello scowled and hit me again, this time twice as hard and on the other side of my face, the force of the blow sending me sprawling on the floor. Not that I was really glued to my seat on the sofa or anything, don't get me wrong; I was practically half way off the damned couch to begin with.

My chest heaved as I coughed. Before I even had a chance to lift my head, a pointed leather boot pressed hard against my skull, the tip of the other tapping against my swollen cheek. There was more blood now. The coppery taste filled my mouth as a mixture of blood and saliva dripped from my lips and down my chin. Fruitlessly I tried to move my head, but Mello only stepped down with more force, my face crushed into the scratchy carpet.

"Mello," I gasped, my words nothing more than constrained whispers. "C'mon, I can't breathe."

The pressure against my head lifted, and I was kicked over onto my back. My chest heaved and the air scraped against the rawness of my throat as I caught my breath. Subconsciously I groped around for something to retaliate with should Mello attack me again. The closest thing in range was a sofa pillow. It would do.

"Now that you can breathe, listen closely," Mello hissed softly. "If you _ever_ make advances on me a—"

"Mello, the _only _thing that kept me from fucking you last night was my miniscule bit of a conscience that pops up at the worst possible mo—"

"And how do you know you didn't?"

I bit my tongue.

No, I didn't know. My pants were MIA when I had awoken after all, but that doesn't necessarily mean that Mello and I did it, did it?

I sat up with an exaggerated groan, pulling my knees to my chest.

"Please don't tell me—"

Mello shrugged. "I woke up naked and then began vomiting in the kitchen sink."

"Fuck. You can't mean I—How can I—DAMMIT!"

Mello smirked and shook his head.

"You're so gullible Matt. I ought to shoot you."

"What? Why? What did I do to deserve a bullet to the brain, huh?"

Mello shrugged and turned towards the kitchen. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but winced in discomfort as the soreness in my jaw became more prominent.

Geez, Mello could sure be a bitch, and screwing him into the sofa is definitely not something I would have wanted to have forgotten due to one too many drinks or some lame shit like that. Not like I would have wanted to really do that anyway, even if I was getting very bored with the same old women. Cherry red lipstick, manicured acrylic nails, silicone breasts that really don't have the same tender, warm feel as natural ones. . . Don't get me wrong, huge, perky breasts are hot, but sometimes, when I'm in bed with half of these women, I wish I could be less of a guy and go for someone more natural. Although with my current situation, i.e. my entire life, and my line of work, I could never settle down. Not like I'd want to, but sometimes I just wonder . . .

Grabbing onto the armrest of the sofa, I pulled myself to my feet. My knees shook slightly, but I managed to find my jeans on the back on the couch and I pulled them on, not bothering to buckle or button them. Wandering into the kitchen with my hand tugging my pants back onto my hips every few seconds, I grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the counter and opened a window as I began to make myself some breakfast at one in the afternoon.

"What did I tell you about smoking in the house?" Mello growled, before retching and sending another load of vomit into our kitchen sink.

"It'll kill the smell in here," replied, opening a cupboard and rummaging around for some smell good spray.

"I don't care, Matt, I will not have this hou—"

I sighed. With my frying pan in one hand and aerosol can in the other, I sprayed the length of Mello's torso with "vanilla bean" air freshener and continued on my trek for food. Setting the frying pan onto the stove, I lit up a cigarette and began to search through the fridge.

"Alright, what do I have to work with?" I asked myself, my cancer stick dangling between my lips. We had very little in our fridge, not like there was ever much anyway. An empty carton of eggs sat in the shelf of the door. I threw that away. In the freezer was a pack of bacon, but it was frozen solid, and there were a few individually wrapped slices of Kraft cheese along with our nearly expired half-gallon of milk. Checking first to make sure it hadn't spoiled, I placed the milk on the counter and checked our cupboards for cereal.

I set our Mr. Coffee to brew a full pot and began to make my breakfast. Of course Mello would want food too, so I found his box of Count Chocula and filled a bowl for him, although no milk. He could pour that when he stopped tossing his cookies. For myself I filled a bowl of frosted wheaties, and sent them swimming in milk before finding two clean spoons and taking our bowls to the table.

I took my seat at our small kitchen table, although it was more of a work desk since there were tools, hardware bits and an overflowing ashtray scattered all over it. I lit up my second cigarette for that morning. Mello was still hunched over the sink, his blond hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead and the nape of his neck. His hands clenched the edge of the counter so hard I could see the muscles in his slender arms shaking with stress. I sighed and set my cigarette down, making my way over to Mello. In the manliest way possible, I put one arm around his shoulder and moved his hair out of his range of fire. There was a rubber band on the counter, so I pulled as much of his hair as I could into a bob of a ponytail, and turned on the faucet. Using our handy dandy spray hose thingy, I rinsed the remainder of the vomit from the basin, making a mental note to scour the entire sink later.

"I think that's the last of it, Matt," Mello breathed.

"I'll go fetch your toothbrush," I said.

Mello's skin was so chill and clammy. Never before had I seen him with that terrible of a hangover, even though I'd only ever seen him partially drunk once or twice. When Mello was yelling at me he didn't even look that ill and shaken, and who knows how long he'd been fouling up the kitchen sink before I woke up.

I rummaged around the medicine cabinet of our small bathroom, hunting for Mello's toothbrush. Poor Mello. What would the guy do without me? Okay, I admit, if I were in charge, absolutely nothing would ever get done, but Mello couldn't cook, he was way too trigger happy, and the neighbors would be scared shitless if it was only him. Actually, the only thing Mello was good for around the house was his obsession with a clean workspace. I'm not talking hypochondriac type clean like Near, just tidy for the most part. Ugh, that stupid prat, Near. What kind of person is all "ew, I hate your germs and being dirty, don't touch my toys", but wears white all the time?

"Matt, get in here, your cereal's melting!"

"Coming!"

Stupid Near, stupid L, stupid fucking Kira. If it hadn't been for Kira going all self-righteous, then L wouldn't have gotten himself killed. If L hadn't gotten himself killed Near wouldn't be "L" right now, Mello wouldn't be as pissy, and I would be able to go on doing the thing I do best. Hell, I might have actually been able to talk old man Wammy into letting me create some fake history and record about myself, and send me to university for a little bit so I could get a degree. Then live that normal life, fucking normal women, and then maybe, just _maybe_, fall in love with someone and settle down.

"Thanks man," I said, tossing Mello his toothbrush and making a beeline for my breakfast.

Mello kicked his feet up on a chair and glared at me. I rolled my eyes and spooned half-soggy wheaties into my mouth.

Yeah, like I was saying, me, fall in love with a real woman. I wouldn't be a shitty ass dad like mine was. Or more like wasn't. I was about seven when Wammy took me in, and from what I know of my mother, she looked nothing like me. Maybe I reminded her too much of my old man, which is why she tossed me at the closest orphanage shortly after my fifth birthday. Between kindergarten and half of second grade, I went through about eight different foster homes. My marks were terrible, so how Wammy even picked up on me, I have no idea, but he did. Once I'd arrived at Wammy's House, oh, Roger hated me from the start. "He's too old," he said. "His IQ is ten points below number twenty's!"

Wammy waved that aside and said he was sure I would do great things, patted me on the head, and gave me my first gameboy colour.

None of the other kids I grew up with wanted this, but part of me longed for home and stability. Living with Mello was constant instability, but that instability was a stable and constant fact, thus making my life also stable in a way. Not the kind I wanted, but it would do.

"So," I said taking a few more bites of cereal. "What's on the agenda for today?"

Mello frowned. "Glad you asked. First, you need to get groceries. I'm meeting with someone who will be arranging a meeting with someone else in order for us to get those passports. Secondly, I will be going to confession."

"Don't scare the priest this ti—"

Mello chucked at spoon at my head.

"Ow."

"Good."

Later that afternoon while I stood lazily in the candy aisle debating about which chocolate to pick for Mello, I had what some might call an epiphany. That is it was an epiphany if they can come tearing out of no where, smack into your shopping cart, which crashes into you, sending you spiraling face first towards the cold and probably dirty grocery store tile floor, and sending your limited edition PSP flinging down the aisle and crashing into the unbreakable wall that is a cooler of steaks and pork chops, bringing upon said PSP an untimely and premature death right as you were about to complete God of War fifteen minutes faster than your previous record.

That little fireball red headed punk ass six year old was, as you might say, my epiphany.

"Ow, shit," I groaned, pushing myself up from the floor. Below me drops of blood splattered on the tile. I cupped my hand to my nose, which had already begun to swell, and I winced as I dabbed my gloved fingertips above my top lip, the warm oozing blood already running down my face.

It was then that I caught sight of my shattered and precious game.

There have only been a handful of times in my life I remember crying, or having even felt like doing so. My best estimate, if you need a number, would be about five. Once when my mother first left me. Second, when my first goldfish died. After the third and fourth fish, I learned that a quick death was the sad fate of all goldfish. Third was the time that I was close to beating Gannondorf in the Ocarina of Time after having completed all the side quests and Mello got mad at me and kicked, then stomped on my N64. Although, my tears were more so of fury than of pain, that is until Mello socked me in the stomach.

This was the fourth time.

No, not because my game and hard work were gone. Never in my life have I ever felt such excruciating pain as I had that moment when I broke my nose.

Biting my lip, I cursed and swore, damning the very gods who created me and the world, clenching my fingers, the pressure from my nails biting into my palms through the leather gloves as I leaned against the shelf of hard candies.

And then I heard a whimper.

No, that couldn't have been, wasn't me.

I glanced to my right and that was when I really got a good look at my "epiphany". A scrawny red head, with freckle dusted nose and an Elmo band-aid on his knee sat square on his behind. Tears stained his dirty face and his nose was running as he sobbed and pressed his tiny, chubby hands against his eyes.

"Andy!"

Before I could even react to the child before me, and even greater problem rushed around the corner of the candy aisle: his mother.

"Oh, Andy!"

Despite her flowing, knee-length skirt and slip on shoes, she skidded to her knees and took her son in her arms. Her dusty green eyes were filled with worry, and her dirty blonde hair was falling out of the quick bun she had thrown it up in that morning. Wavy strands framed her thin face, which was just as freckled as her child's.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice high pitched and shaking. "How many times have I told you not to run around in the store?" Fervently her hands patted down his torso. "Have you broken something? Did you fall?"

"I don't think he fell," I mumbled through my hand, the blood having now begun to run over my lips.

The woman jumped like a startled fox. Her jaw dropped in terror, having been completely oblivious to my presence. I wasn't surprised, really. I tend to have that effect on people. She turned to her son with an accusatory glance, and then her eyes caught sight of the broken PSP.

"Oh my."

"Hm?" I looked up.

"Y-your video game! It's broken!"

I waved my other hand carelessly, pinching my nose and tilting my head back, trying to stem the blood flow a little bit.

"I have another one, don't worry."

The woman shook her head, her thin shoulders quivering and her hands pressed to her face. The little boy, whose name I guessed was Andy, looked just as scared, if not more so.

"No, really!" I insisted, revealing my broken nose as I held my hands up in surrender. "I have another one at home, it's alright."

"Oh, your nose!"

"I've had worse injuries, really. Although, you wouldn't happen to have a tissue. . ."

Immediately she began rummaging through a shoulder bag. I think it was one of those "Save the Planet" totes made out of organic fibers or something.

"Here," she said, handing me a mini pack of tissue. "I don't think I have any more. Is it broken?"

"No," I lied. I attempted to wiggle my nose, pitifully failing to disguise my wince at the sharp pain.

"Hmm," she said, leaning closer and lightly touching the bridge of my nose. I bit back a cry and dabbed even more intensely at the blood. "You should really see a doctor."

"Really, I'll be fine."

If I asked Mello, I'm sure he'd gladly pop my nose back to where it originally was, and at a much cheaper price than a doctor.

The woman sighed, pushing the loose strands that had now fallen into her face behind her ears. I noticed that they were pierced, but only once on each. That seemed strange to me, really. Most women I came across had two piercings in their ears, and a couple elsewhere.

"Well," she said. "If I can't do anything else, at least let me buy you a coffee."

"A coffee?"

She smiled and nodded.

"Mmmhm. Oh!" she added, sticking out her hand. "My name's Helen."

"Matt," I said shaking her small pale hand with my larger, leather gloved one. "This is all I really needed anyway," I lied, holding up the box of hot chocolate mix.

Helen laughed and helped me up. We walked to the check out counter together, my one hand still pinching my nose to stop the bleeding. After I had much difficulty rummaging for my wallet Helen intervened.

"Here, let me." She fished the rest of my leather wallet from my back pocket. I tried not to make a face as I felt her hand brush my hindquarters innocently.

"Thanks," I pulled out a wrinkled five-dollar bill and handed it to the cashier, who handed me my change and a plastic shopping bag.

Helen chose a small café located not far from the grocery store for us to grab our cups of coffee. While she ordered two tall mocha lattes, I excused myself to the restroom to inspect the damage done. My nose was only slightly crooked, if at all, and the bleeding had stopped for the most part. I guess it felt worse than it actually was. Dried blood crusted around my nostrils and my upper lip. A few drops had found their way to my cheeks and chin. Gingerly I took my fingers off my nose, ensured that the blood flow had indeed ceased, and with a damp paper towel I cleaned myself up as much as I could.

"I'm really so sorry," Helen apologized again as we sat outside sipping our coffee's. "About your game especially. I'd offer to pay, but I really can't."

I nodded casually as I sipped and thought.

"Well," I said resting my elbow on the table and leaning my chin into the open palm of my hand. "I already do have a second PSP, and it's a newer model. The first ones that came out were a little less stable, and it was old anyway."

Helen smiled and shook her head.

"Plus," I added as I drew on my hidden skills of charm. "Coffee with a nice looking woman such as you definitely makes up for it."

A slight smiled crept to my lips as Helen's sun-kissed cheeks flushed pink. She didn't respond. Helen merely raised her environmental friendly cup to her lips and took a long sip, obviously contemplating her next move. I mirrored her motions, more so to tease than to intimidate. I knew I was winning when her pearly front teeth bit her bottom lip. Although Helen's lips were thin, they still had shape. Not quite a full and luscious one, but still a natural kissable one. Had her young son not been sipping a juice box next to me, those lips lightly coated with lip-gloss or chapstick would have already been on mine.

Damn.

My jeans were considerably tight now. And there was absolutely no way for me to adjust or move without someone noticing. I highly doubted Helen was _that_ simple minded.

"You're a charmer," Helen giggled with a smile.

"Really?"

I leaned my elbows on the table and inched forward with my best "come hither" grin.

"Ahh, maybe not."

Helen leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. The vintage fabric of her skirt hung loosely over her slim legs, and her arms crossed over her flat stomach, clearly in retreat.

Or playing some sick game of cat and mouse while she flirted with me.

Not cool. Not cool at all.

Actually it was kind of arousing, and that was not cool.

"Well," I said draining my cup and tossing it in the trashcan before I stood up, brushing the fur of my vest with my hands to draw attention from my manhood. "Thanks for the coffee. It's getting sort of late though, and I gotta be at work in a little bit."

Lies.

"Oh, okay then. It was really nice meeting you."

"Yeah, I had a nice time."

"Maybe we'll bump into each other again?'

A hopeful tone thickly layered her words. I could tell she was dying to see me again, anxious for my phone number even.

"That'd be nice," I said with a smile as I left with a cheerful wave.

With my plastic shopping bag in hand I stopped by at another grocery store to finish my shopping. Twenty minutes later I was heading back to my and Mello's place with a few plastic bags and enough tv dinners, instant ramen, and necessities for a week or two. I flipped through the many keys on my key ring before unlocking the door.

Mello was still out, which was good for me since I was pretty late.

On the other hand Mello was too.

The plastic crumpled as I set the bags on the counter and began putting away the perishables. Our place was so empty. Empty egg cartons, empty storage, empty bedrooms, empty living room.

All empty except for the only things our lives revolved around: Murder, crime, L, Kira, competition, acknowledgement.

Part of me wanted to avenge L as much as Near and Mello. Had Kira fallen into my lap I would gladly wring his neck for free, slice his throat with a dull knife so as to tear and rip the skin, and watch him bleed, writhe, and twitch.

Another part of me wanted this wild goose chase to continue for our whole lives. Without Kira, Mello and I would have to find new meanings for our lives. We didn't care about justice for the world or for the wronged, but for ourselves, for our own nourishment. As boys we lived, breathed, drank, and dreamed of justice, and we were the hands of God dealing it.

Without Kira, without those as threatening to the world as Kira, we would have no purpose, the same way as God would have no purpose if all of humanity were wiped out.

Lovely.

What do God, Kira, and us Wammy kids have in common?

That's easy. We pass out justice like candy corn on Halloween.


End file.
